“He’s in a minimum-security camp in Cumberland.” Cooper stared at him. “Let us do our job, Stryker. Donotpoke the bear.”
Stryker grinned. “Poking the bear is what I do best.”
Two hours later, Stryker was signing in at the minimum-security prison in western Maryland. After leaving his weapon at the front desk, a guard escorted him to a visitation room. His blood ran cold as he made his way toward Spinetti. The fit, silver-haired man showed no emotion as Stryker took a seat across the table. Slight in stature with a weathered face, Spinetti crossed his arms over his chest.
Time to play this cool. Stryker remained silent and stone faced.
The prison garb was the only indication Spinetti was in prison. No shackles, no handcuffs. White collar prison was no picnic, but it was called “camp” for a reason.
“I musta gotten your attention if you drove all the way to fucking nowheresville.” Spinetti smirked.
“The B&E at my company was impressive. I wanted to congratulate you in person.”
Leaning forward, Spinetti steepled his fingers, as if in prayer. “I’m an eighty-year-old, retired businessman. At the end of my career, I get convicted of Internet fraud. I come to find out, you, Mr. Truman, are a fancy-pants hacker. The best in the biz, they tell me. You planted things in my computer, the FBI arrested me and voila, I’m incampfor the rest of my life. These assholes can call it whatever they want…it’s still a damn prison.”
“You dug your own grave, Spinetti.”
“You interrupted a class I’m takin’. History one-oh-one. It’s enchantin’.” His smoker’s laugh was thick with mucous.
“I want my laptops back before things get real ugly.”
“Now you know how it feels when someone fucks with your business, but I got nothin’ to do with your problem. I’m stuck here. What do I know about life on the outside?”
“Last chance.”
Spinetti tapped his fingers on the table, his eyes cold. “What laptops?”
“If I don’t get my computers back, you’ll regret it.”
“Again, with the threats.” Spinetti’s lips split open in a menacing grin. “Didn’t your sweet lil’ mama teach you manners?”
Stryker pounded his fist on the table. “Don’t you fucking mention my mother,” he growled. “She put scumbags like you away.”
“Like mama, like son. You two deserve each other.” Spinetti left and Stryker shoved out of the chair, sending it toppling over.
On his way out, Stryker picked up his Glock. Then, he drove for miles in a fuming silence. Spinetti was going to pay for what he’d done. Stryker didn’t know how or when, but he sure as hell knew why.
* * *
Back at the precinct, Emerson plopped down in her chair. After lunch, she’d finally been able to ditch Lyle without hurting his feelings. The last thing she needed was him complaining about her again.
She pulled the business cards from the evidence bag and began making calls. The doctor’s office would re-open on Monday. She called the hair salon and spoke with the stylist. The young woman told Emerson she’d cut April’s hair a couple of times, but didn’t remember anything about her. The third business card—Casey Quinn Photography—didn’t have a phone number, email address, or website. She did an Internet search, but found nothing, so she Googled his name. There were dozens of men and women named Casey Quinn.
Nikki strolled up to her desk. “Hey, what’s happening?”
“Zero,” Emerson replied. “I got nothing. You?”
“Since we don’t have April’s phone, I filed records requests with all the wireless carriers. We’ll hear back soon.” Nikki peered into the small wooden box. “Whatcha got?”
“I found this at April’s.”
Nikki sat. “We can split them up.” She glanced over her shoulder before leaning close. “I overheard someone in UC mention that Toby’s working the case Doug had.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s made inroads with a drug gang.”
“Anything else?”
